


A Desolate Heart Made Whole

by Politzania



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU - 1800's, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Inspired by Frankenstein, Kid Tony Stark, POV First Person, Platonic Male/Male Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 17:59:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16289210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Politzania/pseuds/Politzania
Summary: Our narrator -- a soldier brought back to life, then abandoned by his creator --  rescues a child from drowning and brings him back to the cave in which he has taken shelter.   A strange sort of friendship develops.





	A Desolate Heart Made Whole

**Author's Note:**

> Name of Piece: A Desolate Heart Made Whole  
> Square Filled: T2 - questionable decision-making process  
> Rating: General  
> Warnings: none (character death/resurrection?)  
> Summary: Our narrator -- a soldier brought back to life, then abandoned by his creator -- rescues a child from drowning and brings him back to the cave in which he has taken shelter. A strange sort of friendship develops. (Platonic WinterIron with kid!Tony and creature!Bucky)  
> Created For : @tonystarkbingo
> 
> Also a fill for WinterIron Bingo Adventure 2018 - Abandonment Issues.

“Are you an ogre? Are you going to eat me?” The child I saved from drowning had aroused from his insensible state. After briefly surveying our surroundings -- a rough cave in which I had been taking shelter -- he had so questioned me, staring with wide, dark eyes. There was fear in those eyes, yes, as well as in his voice, but an element of curiosity as well 

“No,” I answered, my voice rough and low. I was taken aback at his bravery; to query one from whom he anticipated his own destruction. “I eat only berries, nuts and roots.”

The child tilted his head, the fear largely replaced by his spirit of inquisition. “You must have eaten a great deal of them to have grown so big.” 

“Nay, I was made this way.” As I replied, my lips curled up into an expression unfamiliar to me, but somehow pleasant. It surely must have looked grotesque, but the child showed no signs of disgust or hatred. How different he was from my creator, who had abhorred and shunned me. 

“That’s what they tell me as well,” the child sighed, looking at his small, fine-boned hands. “That God made me this way. But I am nearly nine years old, you know,” he added, as if that should mean something. “My name’s Anthony. What’s yours?” 

I shook my head. “I have no name.” My creator called me ‘wretch’ or ‘abomination’ when he deigned to address me. I knew not who I was or should have been. 

Anthony’s countenance grew thoughtful. “Perhaps you hit your head on something and it made you forget? That happened in a book I read. I read lots of books.” He must have perceived confusion in my face, because he held up his hands, palms together, then laid flat. “Do you remember what a book is?”

Dear god, there was so much I did not know, or could not recall. When I first awoke, I understood not even a word of speech, my creator’s exclamations nothing but garbled noise. Once he realized my complete lack of comprehension, he spoke quite slowly, holding up objects and gesticulating. I began to apprehend the meaning of the sounds he made: ‘cup’, ‘water’, ‘bread’, ‘fire’. The more he talked -- and it seemed he was always talking -- the more I was able to assimilate, as if his words unlocked a part of my memory I otherwise had no access to. 

I learned at first to respond with a nod, or shake of the head, or to point and grasp. But after only a few days, I began to mimic my creator’s speech, haltingly and butchered at first, but the words came clearer to my lips the more I spoke. But my voice, a harsh and brutal thing, made him cringe even as he encouraged my utterances. 

All too soon, I learned the purpose for which my creator had made me. He wished to create a perfect soldier who towered above his enemies to strike fear into their hearts. One who would feel little hunger or thirst, be able to march for days on end, and fight with neither cowardice nor remorse: a clockwork automaton with a man’s face who would obey his master’s every wish. 

My creator had plundered burial sites to find the perfect specimens and knit them together without concern for the souls of the fallen heroes he was desecrating. He harnessed the power of lightning to shock his creation into being and believed that gave him permission to have dominion over the results. But I was the result: a contrary being who had retained a few scattered, fragmentary memories -- mud and blood, terror and pain, death and destruction. Having already given my last full measure on the battlefield, I would never return, even if my new life were forfeit.

I was roused from my reverie when Anthony placed a hand on my knee, his face a picture of concern. “Are you well, my friend?” My hands were tightly clenched and I breathed heavily, as if I had just run up a mountain. I nodded curtly, struck dumb by both my recollections and the form of address he had used. This child, who at first had thought me a monster now called me friend. 

Anthony nodded in return as he patted my leg comfortingly. “It must be sad to not remember who you are. But perhaps if you tell me what you do know, I could figure it out so you can go home.” 

“That is thoughtful, little one,” I replied, once I had gathered the strength to form words again. “But it is you who need to go home now. Surely your mother and father are terribly worried.”

Anthony’s expression grew tight and pinched, a strange look in one so young. “My mother died when I was a baby. I had a nurse, but my father dismissed her. Said I was too old to be molly-coddled, although he’s been so involved with his project that he should scarcely know the goings-on of the household.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and it was only then that I noticed how the boy shivered, his lips turning blue. 

“You are cold, Anthony,” I responded in concern. “And I have no way of making a fire. Let me take you home.” 

“No!” he cried out in reply. “My father cares for nothing beyond his work. He pays people to look after me then takes them away. I’d rather live out here in the woods than under his roof again.” Anthony sidled up to my side and took my hand. “Please, do not make me go back there. You have already shown me more kindness than he ever has.” The boy’s earnest expression and distressing words stirred unfamiliar emotions in my breast; I could not find it in myself to refuse his request. 

Anthony proceeded to reach into his pocket, and drew out a small pouch. “Here, I have flint and steel. Let us find wood for a fire.” 

The weather had been dry, so it was no chore to gather limbs and branches. Anthony pulled bark from a dead tree, and stuffed leaves into his pockets for tinder. When I turned to drag a log into the cave to keep us from the chill of the ground, Anthony saw for the first time the evidence of my earlier injury. 

“What happened to your arm? Does it pain you?” 

I had been shot at, and the bullet pierced my shoulder. It was when I went to the river to clean the wound that I discovered Anthony, struggling in the current. His rescue had pushed the incident from my mind, but the blood was still evident on my clothing. I chose to respond to his second question, wishing to keep him innocent of my travails. 

“A little, yes. But it is only a minor thing. Do not worry yourself.” 

We built the fire near the mouth of the cave, both to allow the smoke to dissipate, as well as to provide a measure of protection against wild beasts. Anthony carefully struck the sparks needed to ignite a flame and fed it tinder until it was strong enough to catch the fallen limbs ablaze. 

“Sit here,” I said, motioning to the log, “and warm yourself. I shall return shortly.” He looked as if he would protest, but the warmth of the fire proved too enticing and he stayed while I surveyed our surroundings for nourishment. It was perhaps a quarter-hour later when I returned with a kerchief of berries for Anthony and some roots for myself. 

He was sitting, huddled into himself, but had clearly been watching for my return, as a hopeful smile spread across his face once he perceived my approach through the darkening forest. “I knew you’d come back for me,” he exclaimed. An unaccustomed warmth blossomed in my breast; it seemed I was growing fond of my young companion. 

After our meager meal, Anthony yawned and stretched. He surprised me greatly by clambering into my lap. “You are more comfortable than that rough wood.” He tucked his head into my chest, and soon fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Since the original Frankenstein novel is told almost completely in first person, I figured I'd give it a try. I'll leave it up to the reader to decide with whom the questionable decision making process lies: our narrator's creator, our narrator, or Anthony. 
> 
> ETA: 7/11/2019 - Marking this as a one-shot, as the inspiration to continue has long since fizzled out. Hopefully it's complete enough as is; but if you feel so moved to write your own continuation/remix/adaptation - please feel free to do so. I'd love to read it!


End file.
